Rook
by ResidentOwl
Summary: Sam never stopped hunting when he left for Stanford. He only wanted to help his Dad and Dean the best way he could, which wasn't being a soldier like Dad wanted, but research, collecting information and keeping a steady hand when patching them up. He has stopped awaiting his Father's approval that will never come, instead he's paving his own path. Stanford-Era. Sam-Centric. AU
1. Not You, Not Us, Not Our Family

Chapter 1: Not You, Not Us, Not Our Family

* * *

Sam sets the two identical duffle bags down heavily on one of the motel beds, the ancient mattress squeaking in protest under the weight of the left duffle which held a small arsenal of weapons. He lays down on the bed, resting his weary body after a non-stop eight hour drive, stretching and placing his hands behind his head, staring up at the flaking and mildew encrusted ceiling, lost in thought.

Sam's eyes are just beginning to close for a quick nap when Dean kicks open the door with all the finesse of a drunk elephant, balancing three more duffles in his arms, no doubt full of more weapons than clothes from the way he's hefting them.

"Dude!" Dean demands in outrage. "You could have helped me out for the last few bags, or maybe left the door open."

Sam rolls over on his stomach, giving Dean a half-hearted glare for startling him, and drawls, "I was just helping you affirm your masculinity to that girl across the street at the bar you were eyeing. No doubt seeing you lift three bags and stagger your way to the room, has her _very_ interested in what else you can do."

Dean drops the bags on the other bed. "You're just jealous that I'm getting some tonight."

Sam wrinkles his nose is disgust, not at all interested in random stranger sex that's more likely to give him an S.T.D. than a good time. Instead of voicing his opinion, that has been noted and disregarded numerous times over the years, he says, "Whatever," and rolls onto his back, letting his eyes slide heavily shut.

Time passes fluidly as Sam dozes off. Dean putters productively about, showering and changing, and before Sam realizes it, it's no longer a dusky twilight and instead pitch black outside. The bar across the street has began to get into the swing of things, and Dean declares he's heading out and that Dad wants Sam to have all the weapons cleaned tonight.

Sam yawns in response, idly waving his hand in confirmation. He's been on unofficial weapons care duty since he was fourteen when he wasn't fast enough to keep up with Dean and John as they ran ahead to trap a Black Dog, by the time he'd arrived the thing was dead and Dean had a deep gash on his side. John had blamed him for the injury since Sam hadn't been fast enough to back up Dean like he ordered, thus the weapons cleaning and extra runs for a few weeks, that turned into years, on and off in cycles, as John realized Sam couldn't do anything he ordered correctly.

"I'm gonna take a shower first. Where's Dad?" Sam asks levering himself into a sitting position, swaying slightly and blinking sluggishly to ward the sleepy haze away.

"He went to the bar a couple hours ago to question the town people." Dean says absentmindedly as he pulls on his leather jacket; Dad's old one that was well-worn and still a bit too big for him.

"More like interrogate," Sam mutters under his breath, "Well, I'll see you later. Hopefully not with a girl on your arm, and expecting me to scram for a few hours."

Dean snorts, he had done that a few times, until Sam had been startled awake and pulled a knife on the poor girl. Dean had never seen a drunk woman run so fast in high heels before. "Bye, Bitch."

"Jerk." The door closes with an odd sense of finality.

Sam wanders over to his still unpacked bag to grab his shampoo and other toiletries. After a moment of consideration, Sam starts to zip the bag closed, he didn't want to wear his sleeping clothes or clean ones while cleaning the guns of dirt and grease, when a flash of red catches his attention.

He reaches down the side of his bag and pulls out the letter that could change the course of his life, the way he perceives his life. An acceptance letter to Stanford University. A full ride scholarship to their medical program, with a side note that he could take theology and mythology courses over the summer and when he has open periods.

Sam had gotten the letter a few days after he'd graduated high school, neither Dad nor Dean were there, they were hunting a poltergeist a few towns over instead. He had sent his application off to a few colleges to see if one will accept him into their exclusive programs, mainly inquiring about their mythology programs with Pre-Med as a side-note, and gift him with a full ride; he had no money to even begin to pay for higher education, and he can only imagine the reaction John would have if he sprung the letter on him, then had the gull to ask for money. All of the Universities replied with an acceptance letter and partial scholarship, but Stanford was the only one that offered everything, including room and board, completely paid for; even though he'll have to consider mythology and folklore as a side note, it's the best option available to him.

He reverently sets the open letter back in his bag, placing it on top of his clothes and personal weapons. Sam makes his way to the shower, idly stripping down and turning on the water.

_It will not be a pretty conversation when I bring up the idea of going to college to Dad. Dean would probably be more receptive and supportive, if I told him all my reasons._ _Maybe if I tell him first, I might have him on my side for the conversation with Dad... or he'll be so angry that he won't talk to me. _

Sam cringes at his morbid and slightly conniving train of thought, _it's not manipulative, it's planning in advance,_ and washing his hair with mechanical movements. _Worst case scenario, Dad and Dean cut me off completely and never contact me again. _

He shakes he head, trying to banish the thought, trying not to contemplate that road, a road without Dean there for him every step of the way.

_They will understand... Or at least Dean will. We're family after all, and Winchesters stick together._

He steps out of the shower, drying himself and putting his somewhat grubby clothes back on, although just sitting in the car all day did nothing to get them the least bit dirty. Sam is still drying his hair when he walks back into the motel room and his whole world shatters to pieces before him.

John is standing by the end of the bed, Sam's open duffle bag beside him, gripping the letter in one hand and the envelope crushed in his other fist. Sam draws in a hissing breath through his teeth, not quite a gasp, his gut is busy tying itself into intricate knots as his skin becomes clammy.

_No. It isn't the right time. I haven't talked to Dean yet._

He is swaying slightly on his feet, whether from emotion or the whiskey he favored, Sam doesn't know. Slowly, Sam's breath hitching in fear and the knots in his stomach viciously tightening like a hangman's noose, John turns his eyes on Sam, a fire smoldering sinisterly in their depths, callous promises of something unmentionable. His other hand suddenly crushes the letter that holds Sam's hope for a different life and a chance to be worthy, and drops it to the floor with the envelope.

Before John can open his mouth, Sam begins stammering, trying to do damage control and prevent the worst. "D-Dad, I-I just want to h-help you and Dean the best way I can. I can't hunt nearly as well as you two. I can't run as fast, or shoot as quickly, and you always tell me I'm not worth your time spent training me and I get in the way, b-but I am really good at research. Even you have to admit that, right?"

Sam's voice is steadily raising in pitch, until he takes a deep breath and tries to at least act calm. "Look, Dad. Stanford won't accept me with a scholarship for only a mythology and folklore degree like I planned, they said I would be wasted. So I was offered a full-ride if I go into the Pre-Med program, and make theology my minor... when I get back I can patch you guys up properly. I still want to hunt, and help people, Dad, I mean, it's what we do. But I can do that over the weekends, right? And over the breaks? We can work out something where I can hunt and go to college at the same time…" Sam trails off, letting his hands drift down to his sides as he sends John a pleading look, begging him to at least try to see his point.

"Hunting is not a part-time job." John's voice is quiet, barely containing the rage and need to shout. "People die from these creatures everyday, and you want to waste time going to college? You pathetic, selfish, little boy. After everything I taught you, trained into you, and raised you with, you want to just skip out on your family! You weren't even gonna anything, were you, just up and leave at night without a word." John sneers, his voice raising until he was outright shouting, the strong scent of gun powder and whiskey rolling over Sam in putrid waves.

Sam holds his hands up in a weak attempt to avert his Father's anger, he keeps his voice steady despite his own flash of anger at John's assumption, this was not the time to argue, this was disaster control. "No! Dad, I was going to tell you and Dean in a few days after I thought it over some more. I don't want to lose you guys over this, but this is a chance that I won't get again. To use the libraries to get more information and help you and other hunters. Dad, I-."

John laughs, harsh, cold and slightly slurred. He takes a step toward Sam, menacingly, more unstated promises for retribution. "Right, you want to _leave_ to help us. You are _abandoning_ your family, boy! You always wanted a damn 'normal' life. You whined constantly about the training and the hunting. I've tried to train you up to be a real man and a good soldier, like Dean, but your attitude and 'priorities' make you weak. You even complained when Dean and me couldn't come to your stupid graduation or little honors thing you got into to delude yourself that you could be 'normal.'"

Sam's vexation swells and a scowl finds a way to his face, completely disregarding any self preservation that had previously kept his temper in check, he shouts, "I was _first_ in my class, Dad! Despite all the hunts, and the moving around a month before graduation. Any other Dad would be _proud, _and cheer their kid on. Any other Dad would be proud their kid was accepted to Stanford with a full-ride. Any other Dad would at least say, 'well done.' But not you, not us, not our family."

Sam's breathing came quick and heavy now, almost as if he was on one of John's punishment runs, all of the repressed resentment and disdain toward John that had accumulated over the course of Sam's life, bursting free of Sam's tight control.

_This is it. This is the moment, where everything is going to be laid out on the table. No more lies, no more muttered insults, no more excuses. This is it. Dad and me. Make it or break it._

As Sam swallows heavily to catch his breath, John takes a few threatening steps forward, a warning if Sam has ever seen one. But instead of _shutting up_ like every molecule of his being, his instinct, is telling him to, _screaming_ him to, he stands his ground, shaking from emotion, and continues.

_Make it or break it, Dad. Let's see._

"Instead you praise how well we can kill things, how well we can stay awake and alert for days, how well we can use a gun. I bring home an 'A,' all I get is a frown and an accusation that I was spending more time on school than I was reading up on lore. You get a call from my teacher about moving me up a grade, and I get a backhand and non-stop training, since apparently 'if I have enough time to spend on school that they want to move me up, I can spend more time on trying to be a decent hunter.' I bring home honors, and ask you be at my graduation, because it _means _something to me, and all I get is a 'we'll be back in a few days, there's a poltergeist a few towns over. Remember to do your training.'"

John is almost on top of Sam now, looming over him. Sam swallows nervously again, he's already neck deep, might as well go the whole nine yards, and lets the rest spill out.

"You keep chasing after this thing that took Mom, but you forget your kids in your hunt for vengeance, or retribution, whatever you call it to try and justify it. You took my childhood from me, forced me to mature faster than my peers and isolated me from anyone else. I knew how to use a knife, before I could write complete sentences. I knew how to clean and fire all types of guns before I could do algebra. When I was four, and told you about the monsters under the bed, you gave me a pistol and told me to take care of it myself. You gave a _four year old_ a loaded gun! Is this what you think Mom would have wanted for us? Mom wouldn't-."

Sam tirade is cut off when John cocks back is fist and lets it fly. It lands squarely on Sam's jaw, knocking his head back into the wall from surprise; it hurts like a bitch, and Sam raises his hand to his already swelling jaw, checking if it was broken. He should've been more prepared for a physical response, he knows how Dad gets whenever Mom is mentioned, that's why he stopped asking about her when he was six.

John's eyes are dark in blind anger and hooded under the haze of alcohol. Sam can smell the overwhelming scent of whiskey on his breath, not that he's surprised, he'd be more shocked if he didn't perpetually reek of that mind numbing paint thinner.

"How would you know what Mary would've wanted!" John demands, fists clenched and slowly rising in the air, threatening more promises he may keep. "You never knew her, never loved her. You're the reason she was killed in the first place! You took my Mary from me. You took Dean's mother from him. If anything she would be thanking me for trying to raising you boys right, and punishing your mistakes. I tried to get your head on straight, and get you to stop being so _selfish_, God knows I tried, but you never change! A's don't matter when you're trying to trap a werewolf, honors don't matter when you're killing a vampire, and graduation doesn't matter when you're trying to save a family from a poltergeist."

John breaths and levels a look of pure disgust and disappointment at Sam, "You're leaving, because you can't handle this life, just like I knew from day one. Don't even try to sugar-coat it as, 'helping your family,' or whatever you were trying to twist your words into. You've always been too soft, with your self-centered priority on being 'normal' and 'safe' instead of saving people, and you've always been a disappointment to me, never doing what I ordered. If you were never born, Mary would still be alive and I wouldn't have to deal with you. If you had died with Mary, Dean and I wouldn't be held back by your pathetic ideas of what a family should be, what 'normal' should be. You're pathetic, and, God help me, I wish everyday you had never been born."

Tears are streaming down Sam's cheeks, shiny rivulets contrasting sharply to his rapidly bruising cheek. He's heard bits and pieces before, mutterings in the corner when John was especially angry at Sam's recent disobedience or request, or the slurred declarations when he was so deep in the bottle he could barely remember the beginning of his sentence, but never as direct as this. Sam swallows, standing up straight and edging around his father, trying to cobble together his dignity and self-esteem in functioning order.

Truly, Sam only wants to impress John, make him proud, but he's given up making him proud the same way Dean does, in training or on hunts. Going to a college and doing extensive research for John was Sam's last resort at making him proud of who Sam is, instead of being consistently disappointed every moment Sam proves he isn't like him or Dean.

He's never been jealous of Dean, and isn't angry at constantly being compare to him. Dean is strong and quick, and shows that he cares about Sam and their broken little family, although Dean doesn't know just how shattered their family is; Sam is proud to have Dean as his big brother. Dean is Dean, and Sam is Sam, and Dean _knows_ that, embraces it. Dean always supports their differences, even if Dad doesn't, and encourages Sam, generally acting like a proud father when Sam proves yet again that they are different.

Sam toes on his boots, and grabs his thin jacket, thinking only of getting some air, cooling down from the adrenaline high, and letting Dad sleep off his bender. In the morning, hopefully, he won't remember anything, or at least be more susceptible to talking without the accusations. He's about to walk out the door, but Dad's voice stops him.

"You walk out that door," John says with condemnation and disappointment (_always disappointment) _in his voice. "Don't you ever come back. You can either have your family, or you're precious normal life. You leave, and you're not a Winchester anymore."

_Because Winchesters are strong. Because Winchesters stick together. Because Winchesters aren't pathetic. _

_I never wanted to be normal. I just wanted a Dad that cares. A Dad that could be proud of who I am, not who I can't be. _

Sam doesn't turn around, his decision was made for him the moment John found the letter and set his hooded, angry eyes on Sam, the second he raised his hand, again, against Sam. He grabs his duffle, thankfully still packed, and snatches up the crumpled letter, _his last ditch effort to make Dad proud, _from the stained floor.

Without a further word between them, Sam unwaveringly opens the door, walks out, and shut it behind himself without a sound.

.

-ooOoo-

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**A/N: **Heya bros. This will hopefully be my first long piece; I have the outline for half of the story, I really just need to plan where to end it.

I never really believed that Sam would completely cut himself off from his family, or at least Dean, when he left for Stanford, so here is my AU on what happened at Stanford, and why Sam wants to get away. There will be some mentions of emotional and physical abuse, but it won't be a major plot point. I made Sam go into the medical field, because his whole reasoning for going to Stanford is to eventually be useful to Dean and John, and law wouldn't be very useful to hunting. Sorry if you like John, he's has a drinking problem that leads to loose lips and unsavory situations in this fiction.

This will be a fic about Sam finding who he is, and being comfortable with his decisions. Throughout the series, I always felt like he got too defensive about wanting to go to Stanford, when he should have moved past it, despite Dean's needling, and just kept moving forward instead of second guessing all his choices. You know, the whole, 'live-life-with-no-regrets' sort of thing.

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Chapter 2: Where's Sammy?

-With the best regards, Rezz


	2. Where's Sammy?

Chapter 2: Where's Sammy?

* * *

Dean wakes the next morning just as the rays of sunlight begin streaking across the foot of the bed. He peers to his left sleepily, just making out a head of blonde hair burrowed in the blankets.

Raising his arms above his head, Dean stretches and rubs a hand across his forehead in a useless attempt to alleviate the headache that was thankfully the only consequence from last night's drinking. With the ease of practice, he deftly extracts himself from the bed and one of the nameless blonde's clutching hands on his shoulder, without waking her.

He quickly locates his clothing strewn across the floor in the bedroom and living room after their fit of passion the night before, and dresses with efficient movements. He digs in his jean's pocket until he finds the receipt from last night at the bar, locating a pen on the kitchen counter, he scrawls a quick note.

_Thanks for a great night…_

Dean pauses, _what was her name again, A-Abbey? Abigail? Amy? It has to be something with an A…_

After a cursory glance around the living room/kitchen area of the sparsely decorated apartment, he sees a purse dropped by the front door. He searches through it with deft hands. "Bingo." He mutters, finding a obnoxious pink leopard print wallet and flipping it open to see a drivers license with the name 'Bridget Munroe' emblazoned across the top.

_Well, B is after A, so I was close. _Dean thought, as he unceremoniously shoved the wallet back into the purse, and wandered over to the kitchen counter to finish the note.

_Thanks for a great night, Bridget. You were incredibly flexible last night and I know you'll make a great dancer in the future. Maybe we'll meet again, one day. -D_

_Oh God, _Dean thinks, _If he read this, Sam would say I sound like a sap instead of a one night stand. _

Dean can barely remember her mentioning training to be a dancer last night, maybe she mentioned having problems with flexibility which is why it stuck in his head, but he couldn't remember much after his third or fourth beer. He shrugs, leaving a personalized note always makes it easier to disappear on a good tone, even if he'll probably never see her again since John's wanting to head out early this morning.

He groans as he makes his way out the door, shutting it solidly and allowing the automatic lock to click in place behind him. _I hope Sammy finished cleaning all the weapons last night, I don't want to be there for the blow-up if Dad finds Sam skipping out on his orders._

The Impala glows brilliantly in the orange morning rays as she welcomes Dean back, looking pristine as always. But Dean's mind is in another place as he starts the purring engine and begins to make his way across town to the motel.

Truthfully, Dean _would_ want to be there for the blow-up, because Dad has slowly been piling more and more training and menial work onto Sammy over the course of the last few years. It started out small, usually a few extra laps of running for forgetting to clean his third of the weapons, or extra training if Sam lagged behind on a hunt, but this last year especially John has been so hard on Sam with more runs and tongue lashings for even a toe out of line.

_They probably don't even talk anymore_, Dean realizes with a start. For the last year, every interaction between Sam and Dad has been carefully mediated by Dean or only went as far as Dad barking orders like a drill sergeant, and Sam responding, albeit with great reluctance and grumbling.

For the last few years, when Dean was away scoping out a hunt for the family in the surrounding towns and be gone the whole day, he would come return to the rental home to a moody Sam with a few extra bruises.

-oOo-

_"Hey-a Sammy, Dad. Did ya miss me?" Dean asked with smirk, sauntering into the kitchen with newspaper held high with a few pages of notes from research. He expected to see Sam and Dad glaring at each other over the kitchen table, both cleaning weapons or eating a late dinner since it was an hour before midnight._

_He did not expect to see Sam smearing an analgesic bruise balm on his ribs and freezing, looking at Dean like a deer in the headlights. Dean dropped the papers in shock, not noticing as they were swept under the couch and scattered across the living room, he only had eyes for his brother._

_"Whoa, Sam. You alright? Of course you're not, who am I kidding, you're black and blue. Who did this to you." Dean asked in quick succession, kneeling beside Sam's chair, pulling up his shirt again to assess the damage as he tried in vain to cover it up. _

_"No one." Sam replied shortly, clamming up like he always did, tears accumulating at the corner of his eyes as Dean pressed gently on the bruising to check for broken bones. "They aren't cracked or broken, the bruising is only superficial and will fade in a few days. It's fine Dean."_

_"Oh, superficial, huh? Freakin' AP turning you into a nerd. Like you weren't too smart for your own good already." Dean commented without heat, trying to distract Sam before getting the conversation back on track. Oddly enough, Dean could smell the scent of stale whiskey on Sam, like it had spilled or rubbed on to his clothes, the scent set his teeth on edge. "So who did this."_

_"No one." Sam repeated, pulling his shirt down quickly as soon as Dean let go and stood. _

_Dean narrowed his eyes dangerously, not saying a word, but his meaning was clear._

No one hurts my little brother, not when I'm around.

_Sam sighed, he knew from experience that it would be worse if he didn't say anything. "It's nothing. I'm fine. Just a rough day in training."_

_Dean's face cleared with understanding, training with Dad can be a bit rough depending on the lesson he wanted to impart, but the bruising was rather extensive for a run-of-the-mill hand to hand training session. "Where's Dad?"_

_"Back porch, drinking, again." Sam answered, a frown tugging at his mouth and his lower lip jutted out just a bit. It would have been a pout if he wasn't fifteen years old. _

_Dean frowned, Sam always had an issue with Dad's drinking, but Dean couldn't blame the guy. After all, his wife was killed, he found out about the supernatural, and had to take his two kids, a toddler and infant, on the road to hunt down the thing that ruined his life. Hell, Dean would be drinking too after everything he's seen on a weekly basis, and he does, just not as much as Dad._

_He walks past Sam with a firm clasp on his shoulder, making his way to the back porch. Dad sat on the rotted bench from the rental's previous residents, a bare bulb buzzed distractingly overhead. He held the neck of a bottom shelf, ninety proof, gut-rot whiskey loosely in one hand. From the smell, and the bloodshot empty look in John's eyes, Dean could tell he had been on a bender for most of the day, probably didn't stop drinking last night and just picked it back up in the morning or afternoon._

_"Dad, the training hurt Sam, he'll be hurt for a while. Maybe next time tone it down a bit or give him laps if he back talks." Dean said, deciding the direct route was most likely to pierce through the drunken haze his Father was in._

_John didn't even look up, just kept staring out past the acres of crab grass and loose dirt until it was broken by rows of corn of another man's farm. John's voice was rough and raspy when he spoke, "Knew the boy would whine. Kept complaining about school and being tired the whole morning. Couldn't dodge any of my punches when we sparred. Pathetic. Made him run for the afternoon for his backtalk, his _whining_. Lesson on pain endurance, he failed." John took a swig from the mostly empty bottle of paint thinner in a useless attempt to clear his raspy throat._

_Dean felt a pit form deep in his stomach at the words, _Dad didn't make sure Sam was okay after sparring, they _always_ make sure the other is fine after spars. _But Dean nodded anyway, ignoring the sick feeling in his gut. _

Sam probably provoked Dad into a spar, performed horribly and kept disrespecting him, enough to make Dad change the lesson to pain endurance. Sam knew not to cross Dad when he had a hangover, but with his questions and priority on school work which he refused to keep quiet about, he probably set off Dad's hair trigger temper. Sam always rubbed Dad the wrong way, with him being purposefully difficult and asking too many questions even after Dad ordered him to be silent.

_Dean sighed, _Sam needed to learn how to keep his mouth shut_, but it didn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the first time training got a bit rough and Sam never said anything about it._

-oOo-

For years after that, after leaving that small nameless town, it almost seemed that every time Sam opened his mouth with an idea or request, John would already have a lecture or order prepared for him.

Sam is smart, Dean knows that, he just wishes the kid knows when to s_hut up_, otherwise he wouldn't get so many extra training sessions. With the way John is going at Sam, he almost thinks that he's angry at him for something.

_Soon, I'll be able to persuade Dad to get another car, so we aren't all crammed into the impala. Then it's just one more push to let Sam and me go off on our own hunts, without Dad constantly trying to correct every little thing about Sam. I would let Sam plan and research all he like, doing what he's good at, and I would take the lead with Sam as backup when the actual hunting comes along. We would make a great team._

Dean is pulled from his musings, when he drives up to the motel and parks in front of their room. He walks up to the motel door, knocking loudly to raise Sam from his usually heavy sleep. He waits a few moments before repeating, and is surprised to see John open the door, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and glaring heatedly at the rising sun like it personally wronged him. This was supposed to be his and Sam's room, after all, and John would always tell them the plan for the day after Dean got back.

John lets him in without a word. Dean absently notes that he's still in the same rumpled clothes as yesterday, but that becomes the farthest thought from his mind as he sets his eyes on the room. Lamps are destroyed, sheets are torn off beds, and square fist sized craters adorn the wall in a twisted facsimile of picture frames; it's a complete and utter mess. The only thing remotely neat in the room, are the weapons and clothes bags thrown haphazardly in the corner by the bathroom.

"Dean." John's rough voice breaks him from the reprieve. "Give me your phone."

Dean obeys without question, later he will wish that this moment would've been the first time he refuses his Father's order, and gives the cell phone he's only had for a few weeks to his Father. He never checked it for messages this morning.

Dean is still assessing the damage, obviously done by Sam since his Dad isn't telling him to get his shotgun, and realizes one major thing missing. There's no toilet flush, or running shower or faucet to indicate that Sam was in the bathroom. Neither of the beds look slept in, despite their state of disrepair. There are only four bags in the corner, when he distinctly remembers hauling in five, with Sam. The holes in the wall are much larger than Sam's fist.

Meanwhile, as Dean makes his conclusions, John frowns in disappointment and vague irritation at a text message from Sam that was sent early this morning at 12:30.

_Dean, I hope you get this before you see Dad… _

_Typical pathetic Sam_, John thought while scanning the rest of the message, _won't even tell Dean the truth._

-oOo-

_Everything was a haze last night to John. After drinking cheap whiskey at the bar and getting no whisper of a hunt nearby, just boring inconsequential small town gossip, he left to make sure that Sam had started cleaning the weapons, and not slacking off like he usually does. _

_He walked through the unlocked door, and felt the smoldering anger flare up when he saw that the weapons weren't even unpacked and there was no salt lining the door or windows._

Stupid boy, didn't lock the door, didn't salt the room, didn't do as I ordered. I'll have to punish him for that slip-up in the morning. _John thought with a sneer of disgust that his youngest could be so careless, feeling his perpetual disappointment flare, again, at the sight._

_He peered into the bag closest to him when he saw a flash of red, and picked up a letter. A letter from Stanford. He tore the letter from the opened envelope and began reading, barely processing the words: _full-ride scholarship, medical program, theology and mythology, fall semester, gifted student, excellent lore based application essay, we'd be honored_, beneath the haze of rage, disappointment, and shame._

He's leaving. He's running. From the hunt. From his family. How dare he. How dare he do this to us, behind our backs. How dare he abandon the mission. Abandon Mary.

_Sam stepped out of the bathroom, hair still wet and John saw red as he tried to stammer an excuse for abandoning the hunt, abandoning the family. John didn't exactly remember what happened after that, mainly a haze of roaring rage that still sat heavy in his chest, but words were said, Mary was mentioned and Sam was gone. He had made his choice, the family or Stanford, and he walked out the door, not wanting to be part of their life anymore. _

_John could remember the stinging of his knuckles after he struck his youngest son across the face. He could remember the defiant fire in his son's eyes and wanting to show him who ran the 'Family Business,' who ran the family. And if Sam didn't want to be part of it anymore, John wouldn't wait for him, wouldn't let him drag him and Dean down anymore than he already had. If Sam was done, he and Dean was done._

-oOo-

John types a quick reply, _Dad's right, you're a shame to the Winchester name. If I see your face ever again, it'll be too soon. _

After sending it he snaps the phone in half, letting the pieces fall to the floor, where the shards of his own phone lay from last night; cutting Sam off from ever getting in contact with his _former_ family.

Dean turns around, not even noticing the destroyed phone, a hysterical light in his eyes as he asks, "Where's Sammy?"

John opens his mouth and lets the lies and half-truths flow.

And Dean accepts it without a hint of doubt.

.

-ooOoo-

.

**A/N: **Phew. So that's chapter 2, originally I was going to cut back to Sam and his journey to Stanford, but it got too long. If there are any errors or continuity issues (I'm sure that will become an issue later as chapters go on) feel free to PM me to leave a review. This chapter was mainly to establish Dean's relationship with his Father, and his POV on the relationship with his brother, there will be a bit (lot) more back story between them for the 3rd chapter.

Feel free to leave a review. They keep me encouraged. I plan on releasing weekly, although some will come out a bit earlier, every Friday is (might be) my schedule. I'm always one chapter ahead, so chapter 3 is being edited and chapter 4 is half way through the first draft, hopefully that will keep me on schedule.

Anyway, see anything you like? See anything you don't like? Leave a review!

Chapter 3: Wishing for Pine and Steel

~until next time, Rezz


	3. Wishing for Pine Trees and Steel

Chapter 3: Wishing for Pine Trees and Steel

* * *

Sam marched resolutely at a steady pace, out of the motel parking lot and along the side of the interstate. He begins speeding up until he was running, bolting, fleeing from the sleazy motel, from the drinking, from the training and most of all, from his Father. The duffel bag is bouncing uncomfortable on his back where it was slung and his shoes are loose and untied, but he doesn't care. All he wants to do is put as much distance as possible between him and John in that moment.

_Your attitude and 'priorities' make you weak, a burden._

_You're abandoning you family, boy!_

_You're the reason she was killed._

_You took Mary from me._

_You took Dean's mother._

_You're pathetic._

_I wish everyday you had never been born._

Miles and miles pass with only the thrum of his feet on pavement of the interstate and his harsh breath in his ears, concentrating solely on his pace in an attempt to avoid the echoes of John's rage.

_Make it or break it, huh? I think we've been broken long before now. _

Sam eventually slows down to a jog, then a walk as his dry throat rasps painfully; he rests his hands on his head to inhale more of the oxygen his body craved.

_The one good thing about all the extra training sessions is that I can run full speed for miles now_.

After getting his breath back, Sam sits down and shuffles through his bag to check what supplies he has available. He thanks God that he's begun carrying his personal weapons with his clothing; Sam unearths a half empty water bottle from a few days ago and greedily sucks it down.

Along with a few change of clothes, and a medical text from Dean, he has a fake drivers license, a hundred bucks from Dean's last pool hustle, his large hunting knife, a silver knife, his small pocket knife, his butterfly knife Dad had given him when he was seven, and his favorite Taurus Model 92 with an extra clip and small ammo pack.

But there's no first aid kit or tylenol that would make his throbbing cheek somewhat more tolerable. Sam sighs and takes off his combat boots to put on some socks, and lace the shoes up properly, giving his feet and ankles a cursory glance for blisters from his ill-advised, but cathartic run.

_The butterfly knife was the first weapon Dad let me have, a pocket knife would probably have been a better choice, but apparently Dad had eclectic tastes. When Dad just gave it to me one day, expecting I already knew how to use it, Dean snatched it away from my hands and spent hours explaining how to use it properly without injuring myself. Then the first time I hold it, I'm too eager and I cut my thumb open. _

Sam smiles, remembering how a distraught Dean cooed and put a bandaid on the shallow cut as Sam sobbed. Once he had calmed down, Dean had let him try again, because he needed to know how to protect himself if he was ever on his own.

_I don't think this is what Dean expected when he first began teaching me. _

After a moment of consideration, Sam tucks the butterfly knife into his back pocket, placed the Taurus back in the duffel, and set off down the interstate again at a fast walk. The Taurus also came from Dean, a graduation present; it had been his favorite for years, until Sam had found the custom Colt last year for his twenty-first birthday.

It had been a stroke of luck, on his trek home from school he passed a few dilapidated pawn shops in a bad part of town, and gleaming in the afternoon light through the filthy window was the beautiful Colt. It took Sam his whole generous allowance that Dean had hustled for him to last the month, and almost an hour of haggling with a few subtle, well placed threats, but he eventually got the seedy owner to relinquish the beauty. Thank God he only thought it was a pretty gun.

The only issue had been hiding it for the few weeks before Dean's birthday, there were a few close calls with Dad looking in his bag and room from some random missing equipment he thought Sam had taken, and Dean being suspicious because Sam was going hungry during lunch for most of the month, but the look on Dean's face was worth it.

-oOo-

_"Thanks, Dad." Dean said with a smile, pulling on the old leather jacket of Dad's. _

_It was well worn, having been through many hunts, and a bit too big, but it was tough and Dean will grow into it. Dad had grinned proudly in response. _

_Sam entered the living room, with his hands held behind his back, and walked up to Dean, still marveling at the jacket. "Here." Sam said, pushing a heavy box that was carefully wrapped in some ethnic newspaper that was from a coffee shop by the high school. _

_"Oh, Sam, you didn't." Dean said, but an eager gleam shone in his eyes, Sammy had always given Dean the most thoughtful presents. "You got me a…" Dean ripped off the packaging and stared, "box of Lucky Charms? Thanks… you really busted the wallet with this one." He smirked, pointing at the half-off sticker in the corner, trying to hide the flash of disappointment._

_Sam rolled his eyes, "Open it, jerk." He couldn't find a smaller box on such short notice, Dad never said when he was going to give Dean his present._

_Dean opened it, pulled out some more balled up ethnic newspaper used as packaging, and shook the Colt out into his hand. _

_Dean went wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the sight of the custom Colt, the detailed engravings gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light fixture and the ivory grips fit like a glove in Dean's hand. _

_"What-. Where-. How did-" Dean stuttered in aborted sentences, doing his best interpretation of a fish out of water; Sam was thankful he still knew how to interpret Dean stutter from when they were younger._

_"It's a Colt model 1911, .45 caliber with a 7-round magazine. It has a custom engraved barrel and ivory grips. I was lucky and found it in a pawn shop a few weeks ago." Sam supplied proudly, ignoring the soft scoff from Dad when he mentioned the magazine. _

_"Lucky, huh?" Dean said, looking back at the lucky charms box, before turning back to Sam with a grin. "It's awesome." Dean pulled Sam into a bone-crushing hug, trying to express all his love and gratitude without words, for fear of compromising his masculinity in a chick flick moment. "Thanks, Sammy." _

_The moment, for Sam, was ruined by the smell of gun powder and stale whiskey that had seeped into the leather jacket from the previous owner, it wasn't Dean's smell._

_"It's Sam."_

-oOo-

Dad may have grumbled about buying different ammo, and it being a pretty gun with a small magazine, but Dean loved it, although it never completely took the place of his Taurus Dad had gifted him when he was fifteen.

A few days after graduation, Dean and Dad had returned from the poltergeist hunt a few towns over.

-oOo-

_"Dad, Dean, did the hunt go alright? Are you hurt?" Sam asked with nervous energy from staying awake past midnight hyped up only on worry and anticipation. There was an extensive medical kit waiting on the rickety kitchen table, open and ready to be used. _

_Sam had bounced around the kitchen for the hours previous cleaning almost obsessively in an attempt to occupy himself and keep from worrying; grease stains were rubbed off, congealed masses of unidentified food were scraped to pieces, and the grimy, brown-blue tile counter tops were back to their former a shining pale blue of thirty years ago._

_Dad trudged into the kitchen, his boots covered in mud and loose dirt clung to his clothes, smelling like death. He hefted the three weapons bags and dropped them heavily on the unstable table, uncaring of the damage being done to the unprotected metal inside, the thin wood squeaked and trembled in quiet protest under the harsh treatment. _

_"Shower, then bed, Dean. I'll go first, you finish up here." John commanded. Dean had followed silently behind him like always, but with a quiet 'yessir' he collapsed onto the couch with a tired sigh, dropping the two bags on the floor. John turned to leave and winced as his hip hit the edge of the table, bringing his had up to gently hold his jostled ribs._

_Sam was up immediately, holding his Dad's arm in an attempt to stabilize him. "You're hurt. Here, sit down. I'll take a look." Sam recommended, worry making his voice sound edgy and sharp, almost like a demand._

_John jerked his arm out of Sam's clingy grip. "Don't take that tone with me, boy." He hissed warningly, the sour smell of beer on his breath. "I was thrown into a tree mere hours ago, and all I want to do is shower and sleep. Not listening to you whine about graduation, while I'm forced under your care."_

_Anger clouded Sam's features, and he retorted scathingly, "I wasn't even going mention graduation. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. But that's fine, go sleep off your drunk ass. I'll _'whine' _in the morning." Sam crossed his arms defiantly, feeling dread well up inside him as he glared at his Father._

_The sides of John's mouth pulled downward and his eye twitched at the blatant show of disrespect, a far cry from the usual blank mask of indifference. Sam knew he had gone too far, especially with the sarcastic air quotes, he would have usually held his tongue like a good son, but the hours of worrying and built up nervous energy made him short-tempered. Despite that he held his ground, refusing to apologize, and met his Father's glare without a blink. _

_"All the weapons have to be cleaned and fixed by morning. You will run around the property from six to nine, without breaks. I'll be watching." John ordered coldly. The threat of more punishment hanging in the air. _

_Sam nodded. John waited, narrowing his eyes at him. Sam clenched is jaw tightly, and gritted out, "Yes, sir." Without further acknowledgement, John turned and stiffly walked out of the kitchen in an even military stride._

_After a moment of tense silence, Dean groaned in annoyance from his prone position on the couch."I swear, you get on Dad's nerves without even trying. You know how wired Dad is after a hunt, would it kill you to just keep your mouth shut, for once?" Dean stated harshly, but a small smile took out some of the heat in those words._

_He knew, no matter how many times he warned, that Sammy would always open his big mouth whenever the mood crossed him, and nothing Dean said in all these years had even remotely changed that. It would just make everything easier if Sam chose his battles, instead of back talking Dad at every opportunity. _

_Sam wasn't exactly listening, though, but his thoughts weren't on his Father or his punishments that meant he got very little sleep. Instead he was analyzing and gauging every hitch of Dean's breath, every aborted movement, and even the tightness in his voice in order to isolate where Dean had been injured. If Sam had just come out and demanded Dean tell him where he was hurt, he would laugh it off and be wholly unhelpful in an attempt to act tough and indestructible in front of his younger brother._

_Sam grabbed the med kit and strode purposefully toward Dean's exhausted and dirt encrusted form, sitting carefully beside him and opening the bag. _

_"Can you lift your arms above your head or do you want me to cut off your shirt?" Sam asked, rummaging through the kit, pulling out various bandages, mild pain killers, peroxide, and a suture kit. Blood had stained the shoulder of Dean's black shirt, almost invisible beside a general shiny wetness, a thick gauze had hastily be taped over the gash, but that had begun to soak through._

_"Just cut it off." Dean sighed shortly, after assessing the damage done to his shirt and how much of a pain it would be to raise his arms. _

_Sam hummed in response and complied. "Dislocated shoulder?" He asked, peering at the beginning bruising around his left shoulder blade, before he carefully began peeling the gauze away. _

_"Only for half an hour. Dad popped it back." Dean hissed, trying to distract himself from the pain. "So, how was graduation? Pick up any chicks, Mr. First-In-The-Class, I bet the future sorority girls were hanging off your arms. Or maybe chicks ain't your thing. Got up to something while the whole house was to yourself, huh?" He wagged his eyebrows and smirked suggestively until it turned into a grimace when Sam poured more than a bit of peroxide on the gash. _

_"You'll do well to remember who's stitching you up right now." Sam smiled innocently with a menacing glint in his eyes, completely ignoring the first question that viciously tightened the knots in his stomach. Dean hissed in pain, but said nothing as Sam pushed the dissolvable thread, Dean had filched it last time someone was forced to go to the hospital, through the eye of the needle. _

_"Was it a knife or glass?" He asked avoiding trying to distract Dean from the pain, pushing the curved needle with a deft hand through Dean's sluggishly oozing gash._

_"Knife. Dad dropped it when he was slammed into a tree. The bitch threw it at me when I was trying to set the bones on fire." Dean responded shortly in a steady tone, his clenched jaw belaying pain. _

_"Hmmm. Sounds like he _didn't_ want you to kill him." Sam replied sarcastically._

_"She. Bitches are generally women, Sammy." Dean sassed back, giving Sam a thoughtful glance. "Although you are one hell of a bitch. Got something you want to tell me?"_

_The wound was short, but deep. Thankfully, it only needed four stitches to hold it closed and he taped a thinner gauze pad over the stitches._

_"Yeah, jerk. You're done." Sam said, patting the forming bruise over the formerly dislocated shoulder with a bit more force than necessary, watching with a flash of satisfaction when Dean grimaced in discomfort. _

_He got up, went to the kitchen, dropped the medical bag on the gleaming counters and pulled a bottle of water from the humming refrigerator. The water from the sink is more likely to give someone tetanus than anything remotely refreshing, and after a moment of rummaging, procured a small bottle of OTC pain killers._

_Sam gave them to a slightly drowsy Dean that still sat reclined on the couch, before he went back into the kitchen, the floors newly dusted in mud and dirt, to begin cleaning the weapons. He also pulled an old motel stationery and pen from one of the drawers to keep a catalog on weapons that needed to be fixed professionally and types of ammo to be bought. It wasn't part of the punishment and he wouldn't get a word of thanks for it, but it always seemed to help Dad reduce the number of emergency ammo runs when they were trapped in a small town._

_He zipped open the first bag, stowing the others on the floor, and pulled out the first shotgun, when Dean laid a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around to face him._

_"You never answered my question. How was graduation?" Dean asked, with an indiscernible look in his eyes. _

_"Fine." Sam answered shorty, turning back to the table and his punishment. His punishment for worrying about his family. "You should go to your room and sleep, I know you're tired. Tomorrow you can take a shower and I'll check the stitches for infection."_

_"Right" Dean said, sitting heavily in one of the scarred chairs of the kitchen table, careful not to jostle his shoulder. "You know, I've known you all your life, right?" Sam nodded, "So let's skip the part where you try to lie to me, then avoid the conversation, and get to the part where you tell me the truth."_

_"It was fine, Dean, just another day." Sam responded, his jaw tense, idly pulling out a rag from inside the duffel to wipe of the dirt on the sawed-off shotgun. "I got on a bus that went to the local college, sat down, they called my name, I got my diploma, I walked out, got on another bus, and came back here to the rental. Nothing much to tell." _

_"Hmmm." Dean hummed, not believing a word out of his brother's mouth. "So why are you acting like a prissy bitch, then."_

_Sam stayed silent, not even refuting the insult._

I wish you were there. I wanted you to be there. I wanted you to be proud of me, to cheer me on like any of the other families there. Instead I walked out and there wasn't a single familiar face to greet me. It might not have mattered to you, but it mattered to me.

_Sam attempted to lock his thoughts down tightly, scrubbing vigorously at the shotgun with an already filthy grease rag, but only succeeding in smearing around the dirt in different patterns. The thoughts weren't so much aimed at Dean, as they were at Dad. He didn't express any inclination at watching such a 'useless event,' when they had a hunt._

Dad left three hours before graduation, forcing Dean to follow. Three hours! And no matter how much I asked, bargained or reasoned, Dad couldn't wait for a few more hours to watch his son's achievement. 'People are dying,' 'I never trained you to be so selfish,' Is it so selfish to want your own Father to be proud of you? To watch you walk down in front of everyone else and pick up a diploma first saying, 'that's my youngest son down there, first in his class, I'm so proud of him.'

_A crack wrenched Sam from his distressing thoughts. Dean stood in front of him again, his hand clenching the shotgun, pushing it down onto the table. He pulled it from Sam's grasp, now that he had his attention, and pushed him into the chair behind him._

_Dean pulled the chair he previously occupied closer to where Sam sat._

_Dean opened his mouth and said quietly._

_"I know." _(I'm sorry.)

"_We weren't there._" (I wanted to be there for you.)

_"A few hours wouldn't have mattered." _(But Dad ordered.)

_"You've always been better than me, all through school." _(You're the best baby brother I could wish for.)

_"Great job on graduating, Mr. First-in-the-Class." _(I'm so proud of you.)

_It wasn't the words Dean said, so much as the words he meant that made Sam's breath hitch painfully in his throat. They were the ones he wanted to hear._

_Dean reached behind him to the small of his back and pulled out his much loved and dependable Taurus, the one Dad gifted him when he turned fifteen and became 'a real hunter.' Sam's fifteenth birthday came and went with only a gift from Dean, a medical text 'so he can put his big brain to work and patch them up right without the messy stitches.' He had to hide the book so Dad wouldn't judge it as useless and toss it._

_The mother of pearl grips were worn from years of use, years of protecting Dean, but the stainless steal shone dangerously despite the light dusting of dirt. _

_Dean held it in one hand, presenting it to Sam. Sam took it reverently. He would feel Dean's warmth seep into his cold fingers, transferred from the metal._

_"You keep this. After all I have my own…" Dean pulled out the Colt Sam found him months ago, "lucky charm." Dean winked outrageously with a shit-eating grin, signaling the end of one of Dean's voluntary chick-flick moments. _

_That startled a laugh out of Sam, uncoiling all of the knots that had tightened in his stomach since graduation. Dean wasn't looking for a heartfelt response, he knew just what Sam wanted to say, just like Sam knew exactly what Dean meant._

_"Dean Winchester, starting a chick flick moment? What is the world coming to. Is this the apocalypse?" Sam asked incredulously, hiding his suspiciously moist eyes and thick voice with a laugh as Dean sputtered in outrage. _

_Sam looked down at the gun again, Dean's Taurus, and pulled Dean into a tight hug, being careful not to touch the stitches. "Thank you." He whispered into the leather jacket. It no longer smelled like Dad, sour whiskey and gunpowder, instead it smelled like Dean, pine trees and steel._

_After a moment Dean pulls Sam's head under his arm and rubs his knuckles on Sam's head. _

_"Ow! Stop it, Dean. I'm not twelve!" Sam protested, trying to wriggle unsuccessfully out of his taller brother's grip._

_"You're sure tall enough to be, Bitch." Dean cackled happily._

_"Shut up, jerk."_

-oOo-

Sam's eyes are wet again, but he refuses to let them fall, his swollen jaw hurt enough as is. It's the beginning of summer and the nights are warm and muggy after the smattering of spring showers across the country; the sweat from his earlier run stung his cheek and his shirt clung to his chest and back.

He checks the time on his phone, 9:40, it had been a bit early for Dad to be smashed, but you can't really question the logic of an alcoholic. It had been over an hour since Dean left and he'd probably be on his third beer or so, completely unable to understand any phone conversation or read a text on a tiny screen.

Sam just wants to tell Dean why he left and the ultimatum Dad gave him. Sam just wants to make sure things would be okay between them, maybe not now, but in a year they could meet and catch up; any wounds ripped open from Sam's lying and leaving would be old and healing.

He opens his phone and begins forming a text he could send later.

_Dean, I hope you get this before you see Dad..._

_._

—ooOoo—

.

**A/N: **Here's chapter 3. Mainly flashbacks, hopefully this will help you understand more about Sam's POV on his brotherly relationship with Dean, the connection they have. I always feel like Sam is very perceptive, and contemplates about situations and his family more than Dean does, since Dean just represses anything he can't accept with booze and girls, that made this chapter a bit easier to write and add the detail I wanted, such as the scents and the unsaid words.

If you are confused about Sam's height, he's 5'7'', the average height for an American 18 year old male. Dean is 6'0'', he'll grow another inch in the next few years. Sam's going to really hit his growth spurt in the next four years (due to healthy habits, and less greasy diner food) and shoot up past Dean.

Critiques and Reviews are welcome!

Chapter 4: A Yellow Volkswagen and A Yellow House

_P.S. I have another SPN fic I just started featuring Angel!Sam as a post Season 5 AU, check it out if your interested._

Hope you enjoyed, Rezz


	4. A Yellow Volkswagen and A Yellow House

Chapter 4: A Yellow Volkswagen and A Yellow House

* * *

Sam stops, not physically, but he stops writing the text, just staring at the tiny screen cradled in his hands, reading the first sentence over and over again, turning it around in his head.

_Dean, I hope you get this before you see Dad…_

_What the hell am I supposed to write? _'We fought. Dad hit me, and disowned me. I'm going to Stanford. See you later?' _That would go over well. _

Sam slams the phone shut and shoves it angrily back in his pocket.

_How can I convince Dean, over a stupid text, that I didn't want to go, that I'm doing this for him, that this is for the best? How can I convince Dean of anything that he won't just disregard as soon as Dad gets to him?_

Sam is interrupted from his despondent thoughts by headlights illuminating the ground beside him, a shabby yellow Volkswagen pulling up alongside the road. He stops, physically this time, his hand fingers the pocket that concealed his butterfly knife, fortunately hidden by the duffel slung over his shoulder, and waits with cold anticipation as the driver leans over to crank down the passenger side window.

The driver is a spry older lady, maybe early fifties, with laugh lines along her mouth, her silvery blonde hair held back by a bright green headband. She wore a short-sleeved tunic like shirt and a hand-made Native American dream catcher with feathers and wooden beads hung from the rear-view mirror. In the limited light, Sam couldn't make out much more, but he calmed slightly as he deemed her to most likely be a non-threat.

_Unless she's a witch_, _or a shifter, or a demon… or any other supernatural creature. But for a human, she seems harmless enough._

"Hi, sweetie." She says, smiling brightly. "You alright?"

"I'm fine." Sam replies roughly, grimacing as moving his mouth to speak sent waves of pain through his cheek.

The older woman pauses, noticing the pain and the extensive shiner, and continues with a softer, sympathetic smile, "Would you like a ride? I'm headed west just over the state line to Ely, Nevada, a few hours away. If at any point you want me to stop, I'll pull right over."

Sam suddenly realizes that he has no plan for getting to Stanford, when racing out of the motel room his only thought was of getting as far away as possible. He considers the proposition and his options carefully; Sam has never hitchhiked before, but he's miles out of town, thanks to his cathartic run, and even further from the nearest bus or train station.

All his careful step-by-step plans and half formed speeches he's made in the last month since he got the acceptance letter have been shot to hell in a single moment, now he's flying blind and has very few choices open to him. He assesses her warily for a few moments, and she waits patiently until he slowly nods his assent.

Sam opens the now unlocked passenger door and attempts to get in the front seat, making a show of hitting his head on the low hanging roof. Although it was a bit of a stretch since he's barely average height, he mutters "Christo," and stills, anticipating a reaction, with his hand resting on his concealed butterfly knife. There is no flinch, flash of black eyes, or tell tale evil sneer, instead she fusses over him for a moment, moving some of the innocuous road trip debris that's accumulated on the passenger side and throwing them into the dark abyss that's the back seats.

_Not a demon, but could still be a shifter or a witch. Or a kitsune, or skinwalker, or any manner of thing; she could be the goddess of freakin' hippies and nature for all I know._

_ …Or she could be human, just a regular, nice, old lady. Thanks for the paranoia, Dad. _

Sam thinks morbidly as he places his duffel bag between his feet in the extra space, within easy reach, and returns his hand to where he could have the knife ready in less than a second.

"You still have such a cute baby face. How old are you, 16, 17? Can't be more than 18. " She coos, "So where you headed, kiddo?"

"I'n not a kid. I'm 18." Sam says with a strained smile, still apprehensive with residual paranoia. He really hasn't been a kid for a long time, not since Dad gave him a gun instead of a hug to keep the monsters away. "My name's Sam Wi-."

_You leave, and you're not a Winchester anymore. _

Sam swallows as Dad, no, _John's_ voice reverberated in his head. "I'm Sam. Just Sam." He amended, "And I'm headed to California."

"Well, just Sam, I'm Rebecca Roach. I know, its an awful last name, isn't it. You wouldn't believe the teasing I got all through School. Children can be so cruel sometimes. Although, all they really did was compare my looks to a roach, or call me filthy and 'gross like a roach.' They didn't even think up a clever limerick for me. I should be insulted…"

Rebecca, '_please, call me Becca,' _continued yammering on and on about High School, the teasing, and her name. '_You know, my middle name is Raisin. Rebecca Raisin Roach. Apparently I looked all wrinkly like a raisin when I popped out, but that's no excuse to name your kid that! What were my parents thinking.'_ It seems like she's the type of person who can chatter for hours about something, anything really, with only mild interaction and encouragement from the other party of the conversation.

Sam slowly begins to relax a bit, the cool air blowing gently from the partially open window, teasing his long hair from his aching jaw, easing the tenseness in his shoulders, but his hand doesn't move from where his knife rests. If she was a supernatural creature, she wouldn't be continuing this stream of consciousness for more than half an hour. Most creatures don't like to play with their food for very long, or their play includes screaming and blood instead of non-sensical rants, but that's no reason to completely drop his hard-earned guard.

There's a long pause in her ramblings as she trails off, then Becca gives Sam a long discerning glance.

"So, run away, or kicked out?" She inquires matter-of-factly, beating a syncopated rhythm with her thumbs onto the leather wrapped steering wheel, the wind whirls by loudly in the sudden quiet that followed the query.

Sam tenses a bit with unease, scrutinizing her face in the darkness, but doesn't see any harm in answering honestly. "Both? Kind of. I was given a choice."

_You can either have your family, or you're precious normal life._

_You walk out that door, don't you ever come back._

Sam swallows hard, turning and looking out into the darkness rushing past. "I chose to walk out the door."

"Not without some encouragement, I see." She says, "In the glove box there's a box of ibuprofen packets, a few bottles of water and some granola bars, help yourself." At the suspicious glare, she adds with sympathetic smile, "I like to travel and visit my kids who are all the way across the states, and I tend to pick up more than a few hitchhikers. There's usually a good reason why kids your age are walking along the interstate."

Sam is still a bit suspicious, but at that moment his stomach reminds him that he skipped dinner today. Becca chuckles as Sam peers out the window with an embarrassed flush creeping up his uninjured cheek, nonetheless, he reaches for the supplies.

Becca takes the initiative, again; Sam is beginning to think this is a usual thing for her, since for the last half hour Sam had only grunted or nodded in response to anything she said directly to him. She begins talking about the unstated rules of hitchhiking, what kind of people to watch out for, whom are trust worthy, and where it's safe to pick up a ride. '_Only pick up rides in towns, where other people can see you, you still look young and no one would notice you disappear if you're kidnapped on the interstate' _she chastises, shaking her finger comedically at him in warning_. _

Sam opens one of the foil packets of mild painkillers as she chatters like an over excited squirrel, and chases the bitter pills with water. He munches on a slightly smushed chocolate chip granola bar and nurses a bottle of water as they fly down the interstate. Sam sighs in relief when, over the course of half an hour, the sharp pain in his cheek fades to a dull throb. They pass a sun bleached road sign, that might have been green or blue at one point, with curly, barely-legible characters proclaiming unenthusiastically 'Welcome to Nevada.'

"So why're you headed to California, Sam? Got family there you're gonna stay with?"

Sam frowns, he just left the only family he ever had. "No. I'm going to Stanford. I applied a few months ago and got accepted with a full-ride into their Pre-Medical Program."

"Wow! That's amazing! Congratulations." Becca replies enthusiastically before sobering up. "I'm guessing your family isn't exactly happy with that."

"Dad wanted me to continue the 'Family Business' with my older brother. He thought school was worthless when we had a much more important job to do." Sam replied scathingly, defensively crossing his arms and emphasizing with sarcastic air quotes; without the sharp pain in his cheek, he was much more open to speaking. A voice, which sounded suspiciously like John, shouted angrily at him for saying anything, for not lying, for being honest.

_Well, you know what, John. Screw you! I want to trust people. I want to be a good person. Not a recluse like you've become and made Dean into._

"But I was never really good at the job, and I could never do what my Dad ordered correctly, or I wasn't as good as Dean. I was always compared to my big brother, even though he's older than me by four years."

Sam takes a deep breath, muscles taut with agitation, he doesn't want to let anything accidentally slip in a moment of oversight because he couldn't keep his emotions under control. But this was the first time he could tell anyone anything even remotely close to the truth, and Sam didn't exactly know how to handle it.

"I wanted to help Dad out, and have him be proud for what I can do, but, well, he found the letter before I could explain. He was drunk. We argued and in the end, I walked away. I just wish I could have talked to Dean before I left."

"Your older brother?" She asks, thankfully, deciding not to dig any deeper into what the 'Family Business' is or where his mother is.

"Yeah. He's a bit arrogant and can be a jerk sometimes, but he was always there for me and took care of me when Dad was gone. He can be really overprotective, too, but he doesn't question anything Dad says, just obeys. If Dad asks him to jump, he doesn't even ask how high, because questioning any order is considered disrespectful, instead he just says 'yessir' and does it." Sam pauses, his frustration turning into sadness. "It's like he's a robot. It's like he doesn't even think for himself unless Dad's out of the room."

"But he cares for you, right? He loves you no matter what, 'cause you're his younger brother." Sam nods. "Then when we land, why don't you give him a call? Tell him the real reason you left, and where you're going." Sam didn't say a word so she continued,

"I can see how your Dad reacted, how do you think Dean would react to hearing it from him instead of you?"

Sam nods tentatively, he royally screwed up any chance with Dad, if he wants to salvage his relationship with his brother, at least for the future, he'll need to suck it up and have that conversation, or send that text.

"I have a cell phone, I can send a text when I get off, and maybe call him in the morning. He was going to some girl's place after drinking at the bar, so he won't wake up to a call right now."

"Good idea, kiddo. It's always nice to keep your family close, they're supposed to support you and love you throughout your life, no matter what. Your Dad might be a lost cause, but you're close to your brother and you shouldn't lose that." Becca reaches around and clasped his shoulder gently for a moment, it left a warm feeling and reminds Sam of when Dean used to do the same after a successful hunt, while looking proud.

Sam clears his throat, "So why are you headed to Ely?"

"Ah, Sorry Sam, I forgot to tell you. My eldest daughter and her husband live in the area about an hour from here. She's pregnant and the baby is due at the end next week, I want to see my first grandson born, so I made my way from South Dakota all the way here in this old junker." She informs with a soft smile.

"Congratulations! What are they going to name him?" Sam asks curiously.

"Well, their last name isn't nearly as horrid as mine, its Glenwood. My daughter's name is Sarah, and her hubby is Eric. They're name the kid Miles. Miles Glenwood." Becca explains excitedly, one of he hands gesturing wildly. "Sarah keeps joking that they're going to have the kid's middle name be Grape or Pickle or something equally awful. I don't even know if she's joking anymore. Eric seems to find it funny, I just hope when Miles is born I'll be able to reign the two crazy parents and prevent the him from living through years of teasing. School can be brutal."

Sam chuckles, his mood improving from Becca's contagious enthusiasm, despite the dismal situation. "That's great. Maybe shoot for a middle name a bit more normal. They'll thank you later, I'm sure." Sam stills, his small smile becoming something more fragile.

"You can drop me off somewhere in town, maybe a bus station, or park, or where ever else is easiest. I don't want to inconvenience you, and you've already done so much taking me this far. So whenever's best for you, I'll get out of your hair." Sam states with sincerity, looking out the window, his mind whirling, trying to plan his next few steps.

_I could sleep in the park to save money tonight, and take the first bus going west in the morning. Although, it's barely July and the orientation for freshmen is in mid August, what am I going to do for more than a month? I don't want to draw attention to myself, so I can't ask for early dorm access. I could sleep outside for a bit since it's warm enough, find a job, and earn enough money to rent a cheap apartment for a month or two, at least until the dorms open. That could work, although I won't be hunting until I get situated at school._

"No way, kiddo! I'm not gonna turn you out on the streets this late at night. You probably don't even have enough money for a room tonight." Her vehemence shocks Sam, making him tense and scrutinize her expression, the repressed paranoia kicking back in again.

Becca's countenance turns gentle and sympathetic after seeing Sam turn rigid. "You can stay with my family tonight, if you want."

Sam swallows, his eyes widening to show his surprise. He honestly wasn't expecting more kindness out of Becca, but he couldn't allow himself to stay in their home, to be a burden on their family. "I can't… I don't want to intrude. Especially with the baby on the way. You won't want me around."

"Sam. This isn't the first time I brought a kid to stay over for a few nights. Sure, it may be a bit different with the new addition on the way, but they have enough room. You're a nice kid, Sam, they'll welcome you." She stated warmly with a small smile, but then her face hardened into stubborn, motherly glare. "I am _not_ going to turn you out for the night, no matter what. If you'd rather stay in town, then I'll pay for your room. Either way, you're gonna have a safe place to sleep, at least for tonight."

Sam felt his insides warm at her words of care and concern, for _him_, a kid she just picked up off the side of the interstate barely an hour ago, a kid she knows nothing about. A tentative smile stretched across his face.

_This is must be what a Mother is like. Someone who welcomes you into their home with open arms. Someone who freely gives kindness that doesn't expect anything in return._

"Okay, if they'll have me, I'll stay over for the night." Sam replies, still smiling.

Becca nods firmly, humming lightly in affirmation. "Don't worry, kid. They'll love you."

They make idle chatter for the rest of the hour or so drive to Ely, talking about inconsequential things, flitting from topic to topic, to whatever suits their fancy. Sam learns that Eric and Sarah own a store in town that sells organic and nature oriented items and clothing, '_really, it's a hippy store, but they aren't hippies'_. But it was well off, especially with the tourists that come by, since it carries handmade Native American clothes and trinkets from a few nearby reservations. It's called Stars and Tokens. The Glenwoods lived a few miles out of town on a decent sized farm house with a few acres of undeveloped land, just far enough to avoid any traffic passing by the house and to clearly see the stars at night.

Sam tells Becca about how Dad's job keeps the family unit moving from town to town every month or so and how difficult growing up was for him and Dean. He tells her a lot about Dean, the moments he treasured: when Dean had K. a kid for making fun of Sam, how Dean used to take Sam out for a midnight ride whenever he couldn't sleep, how he knew that the rumble of the Impala was the only way to get Sam to sleep despite nightmares and insomnia.

Sam smiles at the memory, peering back out the dark window, things were simpler back then, he could almost forget that Dad existed in those few precious moments with just him and Dean in the Impala.

-oOo-

_"Go to sleep, both of you. The hunt ran later than expected thanks to Sam. So Sam, you start training tomorrow at 7. Same number of laps, do it in half the time. I don't want you slacking off like usual. Don't run like you did today. Fix it or you'll get us all killed." John ordered shortly._

_He turned away from his sons, oblivious to the tightening of Sam's jaw in frustration, and marched off in that infuriatingly steady military stride to the back of the house, no doubt getting smashed._

_Sam's hands tightened in an attempt to reign in his temper before he did something John would make him regret, his blunt fingernails cut crescent moons into the palm of his hands._

I wasn't even lagging behind. When you called me I'd been thrown out the window and had to run around the house back to the open door. You didn't even check if I was hurt, just chewed me out for not coming when you first called. I'm not your soldier, your pawn to order as you please. I'm human. I'm your son. Why won't you treat me like one? Why won't you listen to me?

'_Just a simple salt 'n' burn boys.' _I told you it wasn't a spirit! I told you we needed to do more research! Damn it, Dad, why didn't you listen to me. I told you all the evidence pointed toward a lesser demon, an Acheri, but you wouldn't even consider that demons exist! You just don't want to admit that you had no idea what we were up against, we were lucky Dean brought extra iron and salt rounds, but we might not be so lucky next time.

_Sam dropped the weapons on the couch, and stalked off to his bedroom, he paid no attention to Dean doing the same behind him. Sam was coated in a layer of dried sweat and a good amount of dirt from the decrepit house the demon had been waiting in, waiting for them. _

It was a trap. Act like an spirit of a pitiful little girl, lure in some hunters or stupid teenager on a dare. Then get the jump on them. A simple trap.

_He stomped into a bare room with no decorations or personal items to differentiate it from any other rental house they had stayed in, just four dirty off-white walls and a worn second-hand duffel in the corner; he shut the door quietly behind him, not wanting any more punishments after tonight's 'transgressions.' Sam plunked down heavily on the bed, only a couple sheets and an hideous, thread-bare, orange and green comforter John had 'acquired' from the last motel they stayed in._

_Grimacing as sitting jostled his bruised back, he shuffled over to his duffel and dragged out a almost empty bottle of Tylenol. Shaking out a couple pills, he swallowed them without water regardless of his dry throat, not being able to accrue the energy to get a glass of water. He flopped wearily face down on the grotesque comforter not caring that he was adding to the array of unidentifiable Picasso-esque stains, making the ancient mattress squeak in protest at the treatment, and buried his face in a thin pillow. A few hours of sleep and maybe he'll feel more like himself again. He dozed off listening to the sounds of Dean rustling quietly in the room next-door, and his Dad knocking things over with all the coordination of a toddler._

_Sam jolted awake a couple hours later, rolling off the bed with a thump, echoes of screams reverberating like some perverted church choir and images of Dean and Dad were etched onto his retina, barely recognizable under the torn skin, the exposed organs, and the blood. The blood on his hands._

_He could hear the blood in his veins roaring, his heart hammering in his ears; he could feel remnants of the thick warm liquid dripping off his fingers. The after shocks of the nightmare faded with each strained breath that was forced out of Sam's lungs, almost hyperventilating in shock. Ignoring the stinging of the bruises, he situated his back to a wall, and pulled his knees up to his chest, hiding his face in his arms._

_Tears cut clear tracks down his face as he attempted to rein his breath under control; a minute passed with only the slowing of harsh wheezing. Sam almost wished Dean was there, to hold him as he calmed down, as his tears slowly dried into crusty reminders on his face. But he couldn't call Dean here, he shouldn't be having nightmares at all. He's fourteen for Christ's sake, Dean never had nightmares at fourteen. _

_Almost as if drawn by his brother's distress, Dean slowly opened the door which creaked an unwanted welcome. Sam's breathing had almost evened out to a semi-regular rhythm by then, with the occasional gasp of distress, but calm enough after a nightmare. Dean didn't approach Sam's quivering form, it had been too long after Sam had awoken and they would both feel awkward now that Sam's emotional state had evened out. _

_Sam regarded Dean with a slightly haunted look, the bags under his eyes were heavier under the dim light of the moon slanting through the dirt encrusted window. Dean could tell Sam had been having recurring nightmares for the last week or so, since the hunt with the father being killed by a vengeful spirit in front of his daughter, while they were unable to do anything. It haunted Dean too, although he wouldn't admit it; after all, he knew how to keep his nightmares quiet since he was fourteen. _

_Sam watched with empty eyes as Dean tossed the keys in the air, jingling loudly in the near silence, and caught them with a quick swipe from his other hand. _

_"Come on, Sam. Let's go for a drive." He proposed in his usual gruff tones, a plea for normalcy, then he walked out the door without a backwards glance, trusting that Sam would meet him there in his own time._

_After several long moments of breathing, collecting the shattered pieces of himself into a semblance of working order, Sam stood and followed his brother to the car. Without a word, Sam slid into the passenger seat of the running car, and Dean pulled them out the drive way and down the street, surrounded by seemingly endless rows of corn. _

_They drove for what felt like hours, a comfortable silence between them, the Impala rumbling, and the rows of corn blurring into a stream of muddy colors broken by the occasional farm house. The vibrations beneath Sam's curled body slowly eased the tension in his shoulders, and his thoughts matched the even purr of the Impala, turning away from the distressing nightmare and thoughts of Dad, until he had a hard time keeping his eyes open._

_Without a word, Dean reached over and clasped Sam's shoulder gently before puling him down so his head rested on his thigh, Sam could smell pine and steel under the veneer of sweat and mud. Sam tensed again, his ears ringing with accusations of being weak and pathetic, but the gentle stroking of his long hair, an act of rebellion against Dad, eased the turmoil of thoughts. Sam's eyes slipped closed again, relaxing into Dean's rhythmic ministrations, rocked by the Impala's gentle rumbles._

_"You'll be okay, Sammy. I've gotcha."_

-oOo-

Becca, fortunately, doesn't press Sam for any information about his Dad or Mom, just let him chatter on about Dean, while laughing and responding at the appropriate moments. Sam makes sure to avoid mentioning anything about the Family Business or Dad, sticking to school things, and traveling across the U.S. with Dean instead.

They eventually turn off the interstate onto a gravel road that extends for a few miles away from the noisy traffic, passing a few farms with various crops. They roll up to a pale yellow farm house, illuminated only by a dim lantern next to the red front door. A winding foot path of various colored flat stones lead to the porch, surrounded by wild flowers and tall trees, the garden seems like a haphazard mess at first, but there was a wild, untamed beauty to it.

They both extract themselves tiredly from the Volkswagen, the clock on the dash just turning to midnight as Becca shut off the engine. She grabs a few bags of her own from the trunk, and they wander up to the front door.

Sam stands stiffly behind her in front of the door with his duffel slung over his shoulder and holding one of Becca's bags. His heart beat rapidly from nervousness and worry as she knocks solidly on the front door, setting one of her heavy bags on the ground.

_What if Becca's wrong. What if they won't let me stay. What if they don't like me… Oh God, I sound like a kindergardener on the first day of school. Keep it together, Sam. This is a normal family, not a Chupacabra._

The door opens, spilling warm light onto the dimly lit porch, not quite reaching the toes of Sam's black boots. A tall caucasian man with black wavy hair and brown eyes welcomes Becca with open arms, smiling and laughing happily. A woman with short dirty-blonde hair and hazel eyes stands behind him, heavy with child, wearing some comfy sweat pants and a tank top; she has the same laugh lines around her mouth as Becca. They exchange words of welcome and love, hugging and touching one another, holding hands while beaming joyfully.

Sam looks down, away, feeling like he's intruding upon an intimate moment. _Is this how a family, a 'normal' family, interacts? They show each other this much love? _

Becca says something, gesturing toward Sam who was shadowed, out of the light from the family's open door. He looks up, seeing the welcoming smiles and the inviting home. He steps forward, into the warm light.

"Hi, I'm Sam."

-oOo-

Sam enters the small guest bedroom, clutching his duffel bag like a lifeline in one hand and holding a small bag of ice to his cheek with the other, with a dazed look in his eyes. Eric and Sarah were… nice, for lack of a better term, really nice. Welcoming, warm, caring and touchy-feely, everything Sam has utterly no experience with, and nothing John has trained him for.

Sarah and Eric just moved away from the town in the last year once they had agreed to have children, before they had lived in an apartment a few streets away from their store, for easy access. But now they own this homey, four bedroom, farm house to start the family they'd always wanted. They had beckoned Sam into their home, welcomed him like a long lost family member, fed him home cooked food, and gave him an ice bag for his cheek. After several minutes of conversation where Becca explained how she came across Sam, they showed him to one of the guest rooms, told him if he needed anything just to help himself, and bid him goodnight.

Sitting on the bed, more like perching for fear of ruining the immaculate light blue quilt, Sam peered around the room with a careful gaze, looking for anything out of the ordinary like John taught him to do with every hotel room or house they rented. The walls were a clean gray-blue, used to help reflect light from the single large south facing window, there was a small wooden dresser with a nondescript lamp, and a closet half full with bins of winter clothes. Sam swept his gaze under the wrought iron bed as he absentmindedly untied his shoes; there was a loose support under the bed, like they had forgotten to screw it in all the way when making the bed frame.

_Pure iron, it looks like, and I saw a silver letter opener on the counter earlier, so that crosses off a lot of creatures… Damn it. They're just so nice, how could people be so kind without an ulterior motive. I feel like I'm doing them a disservice still being so paranoid around them. _

Sam shed his dirty clothes, smelly with sweat, and folded them neatly on the floor by his worn shoes. He changes into his sleep wear that consisted of an old, torn shirt and sweatpants of Dean's that were a bit too big for him, forcing Sam to cinch the draw string waist tight around his skinny frame and roll up the pant cuffs to avoid slipping on the long hems; as an afterthought, he pulls the knife from his worn jeans and slips it into his pocket, just in case. He rolls back the quilt comforter, placing the decorative pillows and shams on the other side of the full-sized bed, and got to work preparing to sleep.

He rummages in his duffel, procuring his toothbrush and tooth paste, and carefully sneaks out the door and down the hall to the bathroom. He quickly brushes his teeth, engaging in an useless staring contest with a painting of a large cat sitting upon the Golden Gate Bridge in the mirror, and gingerly washes his face, splashing water on his face and neck. The bruising on his cheek had become a mottled purple and blue, stretching from the bottom of his jaw to his cheek bone, the skin looked stretched and swollen under the incandescent bulbs.

_Dad sure did a number on me._

Sam roughly runs his fingers through his long hair in a sign of distress, pushing his long bangs from his face in an attempt to ward away the dark thoughts. He winces when his hands rakes over a decently sized bump on the back of his head, gently pressing on the new found goose-egg, that was more like a quail egg, he sighed in relief as he discovered no blood.

_Maybe hit a bit harder next time, Dad, and I'll get a concussion. It'll be a new record._

Snatching up his toothbrush and toothpaste, he silently creeps his way back to the guest bedroom in order to not disturb his kind hosts, and settles himself between the comfortable sheets, a huge step up from the regular starchy motel sheets the cheap bastard liked to frequent.

Sam still wants to believe in John, that Sam could redeem himself to him, and prove his worth, despite the argument and the words said in anger that had accumulated over years of repression. Sam wants to believe that he could still fix his family, but he knows it's useless. John is too far gone, lost in the pursuit of revenge and the bottom of a bottle of gut-rot whiskey. Sam just tries to hold onto the hope that Dean wouldn't be lost, too.

_Dean._

Reaching over to his duffel bag he had dropped by the side of the bed for easy access, he pulls out his phone, flips it open and finds the beginning of the drafted text for his brother. Laying still for a few long moments, he stared at the black text on the bright white screen, illuminating his face and deepening the shadows around his eyes.

_Dean, I hope you get this before you see Dad…_

Without another moment to hesitate and overthink his situation with Dean and Dad, he types out the rest of the message.

Sam stares at it for a moment, watching as the clock on the banner above the text blinks lazily over to 12:30, and sent the message, before he could overthink, agonize, and delete it. It was genuine, if a bit scatter-brained, and hopefully that would be enough for Dean.

Tucking his phone back into his duffel, he turns over to stare at the slanting moon light creeping slowly across the floor toward the door. Sam's mind blanks, exhausted from the disaster that was the last few hours, while watching the moonbeams crawl, listening to the quiet murmur of indistinct voices in the other room.

He feels safe, despite the residual paranoia from hard earned hunter precaution, and begins thinking that things just might end up alright. Dean probably won't forgive him immediately, but maybe in a year or two when the ragged wounds have healed and the pain of betrayal has dulled to an ache, then they could meet and catch up, go hunting together, or he might call for information and just to check up on Sam. After all, they're brothers, they have a bond stronger than a regular family.

He blinks slowly and lets his eyes fall heavily shut, allowing himself to slip into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

_You'll be okay, Sammy._

_._

—ooOoo—

.

**A/N: **Hey-o, lovely readers. Here's chapter 4, sorry for the wait, I ended up scrapping over 15,000 words because of the slow pacing, this is what I was able to salvage from a couple weeks of useless work. This ended up really being a interlude of relative normality to allow time for Sam to screw his head on straight, after this is a time skip to get the the point where he starts to grow and make connections. And of course there will be more flashbacks, I really like to write those, I hope you enjoy them, too.

My Mother's wedding is in a couple weeks so I have been and will be pretty busy trying to prepare last minute things (she wants to do everything by hand and has slated me as automatic help, it's absolutely maddening). I'll try to update, but I'm also working on another SPN story, '_You Are Driving Me Home,' _and with the wedding it'll be rather sporadic.

Hope you enjoyed anyway.

Critiques and reviews are welcome!

-Rezz


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